


it's gotta be you

by mrecookies



Category: GOT7
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drabble Sequence, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up Together, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 04:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3236615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrecookies/pseuds/mrecookies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 times Mark took care of Jackson, and 1 time Jackson took care of Mark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's gotta be you

**one.**

Mark is five when a new family moves in next door. He sits on his dad's shoulders in the garden, the hot Californian sun beating down on his dark head. His dad waves cheerfully over at their new neighbours, and Mark squeaks as he nearly falls off.

It's a few days later that a boy is unceremoniously shoved into Mark's space in the backyard. Annoyed at having his peace disturbed, Mark glares at the intruder and continues fiddling with his toy truck. Mark's mom clicks her tongue and warns him to be nice to Jackson before leaving to rejoin the party.

Mark hates parties.

Jackson agrees with him, but in later years Mark will find this to be horrendously untrue. Jackson will grow up to be one giant party animal who always manages to have a good time while Mark will remain the guy who sits in the corner sipping his beer. But that's much later; now, Jackson, four, sits solemnly next to Mark and discusses the benefits of toy trucks and the possibilities of getting a train set for the upcoming holidays, and fervently makes noises of disgust every time the adults get too loud.

Somehow, the two boys find themselves utterly bored by toys and naturally proceed to climb the largest tree in the backyard. Mark has a few inches on Jackson, who is chubby and short, but even he can't reach the lowest thick branch. Jackson tries though. He hops and jumps, uncaring of the bark scratching away at his nice shirt. Buttons fly off, two at a time, but the boys simply giggle as they disappear into the hedges.

Then Jackson gets hurt. He falls onto his bum quite suddenly, and Mark chokes down his laugh when Jackson starts to cry. His shirt is wide open at this point, and there are small scratches down his chest. But it's the cut on Jackson's finger that is bleeding, and the small boy whimpers as a red drop wells up and threatens to spill over onto his jeans.

"Come with me," Mark says, heart thumping, and gently pulls Jackson to his feet and into the house. He remembers where they keep the Band-Aids, in the cupboard in the kitchen, and lays out the boxes on the kitchen table.

"That one," Jackson says softly, after Mark gets him to run his finger under the tap. He learned this from his mom after he fell down during recess—it stings but it gets the dirt out. Mark wraps the Pooh plaster carefully around the wound on Jackson's finger.

The two boys examine Pooh with twin grave expressions, until Jackson nods and blows his nose loudly into a tissue.

"You saved my life." Jackson looks down, shy, and Mark feels all warm and fuzzy, like when he ate brownies for the first time. "You're m'hero."

When the adults come looking for them and the scoldings start coming fast and loud, Mark holds Jackson's uninjured hand tight and rubs at his cheek where he can still feel the soft imprint of Jackson's kiss.

*

**two.**

"I'm dying," Jackson says dramatically, eyes wide and shiny with tears. He crumples the top of his blanket with his fists, and wriggles against the pillows at his back.

Mark has math homework to do, so he pats Jackson on the head and goes back to memorising the seven times table. It's just chickenpox, what Jackson has, and it's not going to kill him or anything. Mark had it just last year, and it itched a lot and involved a ton of pink lotion that had a funny smell and a weird name, but he turned out okay. He didn't get to see Jackson for a whole week though.

"Maaaaaaark," Jackson whines after ten minutes of silent shuffling. "Mark, I'm bored. An' itchy. An' I'm going to _die_."

"You're not gonna die," Mark replies, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he scribbles down the answer to six times seven. "Go to sleep, Jackson, your mom said you haven't been sleeping."

"Don't wanna sleep." Jackson tugs on the back of Mark's collar, hard, and the older boy suppresses the urge to yell, because no one should ever yell at a sick person ever.

Instead, he packs his books and pencil case into his bag, resigned to keeping a sick and whiny Jackson company, and clambers onto the bed. Immediately, Jackson latches onto him, snaking two slightly shaky arms around his torso in a clammy hug. "Are you going to sleep now?" Mark asks rather dryly, shifting his body to lie down more comfortably, or as comfortable as possible with a plump six-year-old clinging onto him.

"Wha' if I don' wake up?" a muffled voice says. "Like in the movies."

"I'll wake you up. Promise." Mark gives a large yawn, half on purpose, and grins when Jackson yawns as well.

"Okay," Jackson murmurs. "Okay."

Mark quietly recites the times table from one to seven, and falls asleep midway through the eighth, small snores emanating from the bundle of blankets around his stomach. The photo that Jackson's mom takes of the two of them will be shown much later during their joint eighteenth birthday party, but for now, they slumber on until dinnertime.

*

**three.**

Mark is going to get into trouble for this. Make is going to have to serve detention, probably, and then he won't be able to make it for track practice, and _then_ he won't be able to try and flirt with the cheerleaders after practice. But it's going to be worth it, it has to.

He races down the corridors, mouth curled down. Thanks to long legs and training—although Coach will probably not appreciate the use he's putting her training to—the discipline master soon falls behind, even though his shouts linger. It's not as if he doesn't know who Mark is either, more's the pity; Mark's hair is still reddish-brown from the dye-job over the summer. And besides, he's not exactly unknown to anyone in the school after being part of the relay team. He sprints, turns left, and reaches the carpark at the front of the school where Jackson's waiting.

"—told you, I'm not leaving without Mark!" Jackson's yelling at one of their school's staff, face wet with snot and tears.

"Hey, I'm here," Mark pants out, and gets all the remaining air in his body knocked out when Jackson launches himself at him. "Dude, I'm here, let's go."

The lady—Mrs Chen—hurries them into the taxi, her eyes worried. "I'll settle things with your teachers and your coach, don't worry," she says to Mark.

"Stop that boy!"

"And him," she adds with a grim smile.

Mark gives her a wan smile in return as the taxi drives off. Arcadia's discipline master is notorious for being stubborn and strict, but thank goodness he's got a crush on the sweetest person on staff. It'll help soften the blow somewhat. Mark will probably only miss half of practice and not have to clean the ponds or something. It's a small relief; there's still the matter of Jackson's mom being admitted to hospital for a back injury. Jackson holds himself in a tight ball, unspeaking, so it's up to Mark to give and get directions and then lead his shaking best friend to the right ward.

He hangs back while Jackson cries into his mom's shoulder, and accepts a cup of coffee from Mr Wang before collapsing into a chair. The doctors are holding Mrs Wang for a bit to look at her test results before they decide on anything, and when they finally troop down to the ward with the films, Jackson comes out to sit down next to Mark.

Voice raw, he rasps out, "Thanks for dropping everything and coming with me. I just—I—"

Mark wraps an arm around Jackson's shoulders. "Hey, it's alright."

Jackson leans into Mark and closes his eyes. The fingers of his left hand intertwine with the fingers of Mark's right. They sit together, the smell of antiseptic and lukewarm coffee in the air.

*

**four.**

Mark is twenty when Jackson comes out, and he is twenty and a half when he throws his first punch.

The other guy is still sneering, even though blood is dripping from his nose. Mark's hand feels like it's on fire, and his arm feels like it's been dislocated, but he bites down on the pain and stays where he is. Shouts from the corridor outside start filtering into the living room, mixing with the strains of some Korean hiphop song. A hysterical laugh bubbles in Mark's throat.

"Get the fuck out," he says instead, and very nearly sinks to his knees when the guy finally stumbles off with his gang of friends.

What happens next is a blur due to leftover adrenaline and the beer he drank before the whole mess began. Someone—Jinyoung?—brings him to the kitchen to run cold water over his bruised hand, and he sort of hears another—Jaebum?—calling for everyone else to leave.

"You didn't have to punch him, you know," Jackson says, and Mark blinks himself out of the haze, focusing on his best friend's face. It's red and blotchy all over, signs of Jackson having cried after sequestering himself in his room.

Jackson is kind and nice and sweet and lovely, and that asshole had decided to break up with him on his fucking birthday—and during his birthday party, like what kind of grade-A asshole, really—of course Mark had to punch him when he saw Jackson's face crumple.

Mark watches as Jaebum and Jinyoung help to clear up the mess from the party as much as they can before Jackson shooes them out with thanks. Their small flat doesn't look too bad despite the commotion, mostly because they didn't invite that many people anyway. Still, there are half-empty beer bottles lying around here and there, but Mark's pretty sure that he can take care of it tomorrow, since there's no way he's going to make it to class. He reminds himself to email Professor Kim with some half-baked excuse in the morning.

"I ruined your party," he blurts out. And then, as a belated response to Jackson's question, "Fabien's a dick."

"First of all, my stupid ex ruined my party, but it was ending already anyway. And yeah, he was a giant cock. At least I get to parade you around as my hero. Although you're really too skinny to be a hero." Jackson pokes at Mark's biceps and that, of all things, releases the hysteric giggle and all the tension from Mark's chest. "Thanks for looking out for me, though," he mutters, and takes hold of Mark's injured hand.

"S'what friends are for," Mark slurs in reply, and promptly falls asleep.

*

**five.**

Mark slips out of Jaebum and Jinyoung's flat, a hickey blooming at the side of his neck. He peers down the street, trying to spot Jackson, and only manages to startle an elderly couple walking past.

Red-faced, he apologises to them in his awkward Korean, zips up his hoodie, and jogs down the road towards their flat. It's a chilly night, fall heading into winter. Red and brown leaves crunch under his sneakers. He spies Jackson trudging along about half a mile ahead, head down and shoulders pulled inward. Mark frowns and pushes himself into a run, catching up with the tense figure in no time.

"Hey," he pants out, "why'd you leave without telling me?"

Jackson mutters something and starts walking faster. Mark sighs, a little annoyed, and grabs his best friend's shoulder harder than probably is necessary.

"Dude, what the hell is wrong with you lately?"

He doesn't expect Jackson to spin around and spit out, "You're what's wrong!"

"What did I do?"

"That!" Jackson splutters, pointing at Mark's neck and the stupid hickey that's hidden under his hoodie. "You let that happen!"

Mark shakes his head. "I don't get it, dude, what?"

"You're so goddamn oblivious, you don't know what's in front of your face, not even when—not—ah!" Jackson stomps off, muttering to himself angrily.

"Well, why don't you tell me then?" Mark shouts, and then stumbles backwards when Jackson pushes him into an alley two streets away from their place. "C’mon, man. Jackson. What's wrong?" he breathes, staring into Jackson's brown, hurt-filled eyes.

Jackson relaxes the grip he has on Mark's hoodie, and sighs. "You really wanna—you asked for it, okay, don't kill me." He moves forward slowly, cautiously, on his tiptoes because Jackson has always been half a head shorter than Mark—a fact that Mark likes to dangle over him, pun intended.

At the thought, Mark swallows a snicker, and holds his breath as Jackson angles his head closer. Then their lips brush, and Mark shudders out a breath, surging forward to properly kiss the hell out of Jackson. His fingers are icy, threading through Jackson's unruly hair, and he's shivering from the cold, but Jackson is warm pressed against him, a furnace that's simmering ever so slowly. Everything feels like burning when it comes to Jackson, Mark realises, feels like his lungs are going to give out.

"Huh," Jackson says eloquently, after the kiss—kisses? Mark can't really remember—ends. "Okay."

"Feel better?" Mark asks, voice a little hoarse. He smirks down at Jackson when the other's eyes darken at the raspy sound.

"I'll feel better when this is gone," Jackson grouches, pouting as he jabs at the hickey.

Mark laughs. "Possessive much?" he teases, as they make their way back home.

He's still laughing when, a week later, Jackson pins him down onto their sofa and scrutinises the patch of skin where the bruise once was, before making his own mark with lips and teeth.

*

**coda.**

They always thought that they would move back to the States where things would would have been slightly easier, at least with the support of their family. It's tough, being in a relationship in a country where the marriage laws are still new and society at large hasn't quite changed. Their neighbourhood is a young one, full of progressive people that don't give a shit when they walk down the street holding hands. At least, most of them don’t. There are a few old families that stare too much and make snide comments at the grocery store, but for the most part they're left alone.

Mark ends up coaching track alongside his English-teaching job, and Jackson opened a small fencing studio. They adopted two puppies and named them Dimsum and Mandu, mainly because they had forgotten all about names until the two puppies were in their flat. Also, Jackson had been hungry at the time.

Dimsum and Mandu now sit, tails wagging, on either side of Mark in the double bed. Cracking open an eye, Mark groans, rolls over, and sneezes so hard that Dimsum whines in response.

"Are my babies looking after my baby?" croons Jackson from the doorway.

Mark sits up and glares at him, but it falls flat with his red nose and swollen eyes. "I cannot believe that you made me wear this," he grumbles, plucking at the hood of the giant brown onesie. The antlers attached to it bounce cheerfully. The closer that it’s getting to Christmas, the more worried Mark is that he’ll wake up with tinsel on his head courtesy of Jackson."I'm calling Jaebum to complain about you."

Jackson beams at him, unfazed, and boops him on the nose. "Time to take your soup, Rudolph," he says. "It's galbitang from Mrs Park's stall, your favourite."

Mark can just about smell the beef through his clogged nose. His stomach growls, and his mouth begins to water. "I love you, Jackson Wang," he says, feeling perkier than he's felt in the past few days. "Even though I'm going to kill you when I get better."

"Okay," Jackson replies, chirpy still. He manages to grab a squirming Mandu onto his lap, while moving to sit beside Mark. Dimsum paws at his thigh until Jackson lifts her up as well. Jackson wriggles one hand free to press his fingers gently onto the hot skin of Mark's forearm. "Just remember that I love you too."

"Hmm," Mark says, humming through the spoonful of soup in his mouth, and leans into Jackson.

Unspeaking, they clasp hands. The late morning sun glints off the matching silver bracelets on their wrists.


End file.
